They ringed the ceiling of the chamber in orderly bands, symbols etched into stone in neat, repeating columns.
I saw the moment it clicked.
Her whole posture shifted. The fear didn’t leave her, but it reorganized itself around focus so sharp it was almost luminous.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh no. I know this.”
“What,” I asked, moving closer as the water lapped at my boots.
Her eyes darted across the walls, tracking patterns faster than I could follow. “It’s a system,” she said, voice quickening. “A glossary. Cross-referenced. Not alphabetical, but conceptual. Broad categories narrowing into specifics.”
My heart thudded. “Artemis.”
She turned to me, soaked and shaking, but utterly brilliant. “It’s like the Dewey decimal system,” she said, almost laughing despite everything. “Not the same structure, but the same logic. Knowledge organized to be found under pressure.”
Of course it was.
Across the cavern, Hadrian had collapsed against the wall. He sat hunched in the rising water, arms locked around his knees, shaking hard enough that his teethclicked. The great “alpha” who had brought us here looked very small now. Very human.
I didn’t spare him another glance.
The water surged higher, cold and relentless.
I took her hands, grounding us both. “Tell me what to do.”
As the cavern filled and the ancient system waited to be understood, all I could think was that I trusted her more completely than I had ever trusted anyone in my life.
If anyone could read Atlantis while it tried to kill us, it was her.
The water was already at my chest.
Cold pressed in from every side, stealing heat, stealing time. Each rise felt faster than the last, like the chamber itself had decided it was done waiting for us to understand it.
Artemis was still moving.
That alone kept me upright.
The symbols ringed the ceiling in a wide, unbroken band, painted in faded mineral tones that glimmered when the water sloshed high enough to catch the light. They repeated in a sequence that was almost musical. Patterns nested inside patterns.
She was treading water beside the central hub now, fingers skimming the spokes that radiated outward like the bones of a wheel. One was painted gold, the rest were obsidian black, slick and dull. The water was rising rapidly.
Her lips moved as she worked, counting under her breath. I recognized the cadence. The way her mind latched on when something finally made sense.
My lungs burned.
Her gaze flicked to the ceiling, then to Hadrian.
He floated near the wall, barely moving, eyes unfocused. The water had lifted him off the stone ledge and he didn’t seem to notice. Shock had finally claimed him. The great architect of this disaster, reduced to a breathing obstacle.
She swam toward him without hesitation.
“Hadrian,” she said, gripping his shoulders. He didn’t respond.
The water surged higher, slapping against my chin, growing incredibly close to the ceiling.
“Hadrian,” she snapped again, shaking him hard enough to send ripples across the pool. “What is the Atlantean symbol for air?”
Nothing.
